


lay your soul to waste

by fatal_drum



Series: sympathy for the devil [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, M/M, Oral Sex, Peter Lukas being an asshole, Rimming, Rough Sex, Shame, Sugar Daddy Kink, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, but also some fluff, finally there are consequences, mild physical violence, top Martin Blackwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 12:02:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19441066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum/pseuds/fatal_drum
Summary: “Every one of us would love to just eat you up, make a feast of your fear and pain. Do you know how many times I’ve been tempted?” Peter leaned close, his lips brushing Martin’s ear. “It would be soeasy.”





	lay your soul to waste

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who's supported this series so far! You've all been so wonderful and encouraging. 
> 
> Additional thanks to [@cuttooth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth) for their beta skills and insightful suggestions! If you haven't read their fics, they're amazing.

The tube ride home from Peter’s flat was an ordeal, to put it lightly. His clothes were sticky with half-dried sweat, his arse sore from Peter’s enthusiasm. He didn’t dare sit down. Worse was the faint smell of come on his skin. He’d been too embarrassed to ask for a shower before he left. Perhaps he should have. He was sure people could  _ tell, _ just by looking at his face and the way he walked. 

It was a relief when his stop came and he could scurry the last few blocks to his flat. Thankfully no one was in the halls at that hour. After a quick shower, he collapsed into his narrow bed and slept without dreaming. 

The next morning he woke before his alarm, padding into the kitchen to make eggs and beans on toast. The lingering soreness brought a blush to his cheeks. 

He wasn’t sure how he should feel about sleeping with his boss. It was unprofessional at best and unethical at worst. Usually that kind of thing meant career suicide, but it wasn’t like Peter could fire him. He supposed Peter could feed him to that god of his, but he was liable to do that anyway. It probably said something about Martin that he wasn’t terribly alarmed at the prospect of being sacrificed to a being of unspeakable horror. Then again, it wasn’t like it was his first time. 

Then there was the sex itself, which had been...Martin found himself flushing even more hotly at the memory of Peter’s mouth, of his body, of the filthy words he’d whispered in Martin’s ear. It was the best sex Martin could remember having in years—probably ever, if he was honest. Even if all the soft and sweet parts had been fake, Peter’s _desire_ hadn’t been. Peter had wanted him, _really_ wanted him, and Martin couldn’t resist. A man like Peter could have anyone he wanted, but he’d chosen Martin anyway _._

It had been the tenderness that drove him away, in the end: Peter lying against his chest, stroking his skin as if they were lovers and not...whatever they were. It had felt so good Martin had wanted to stay forever, surrounded by Peter’s scent, pinned under his boneless form. 

Then Martin had thought about Peter asking him to leave, and his blood had gone cold. He was sure that if Peter rejected him in that moment, Martin would never be able to look at him again. So Martin had made the decision before Peter had a chance.

He was trying to puzzle out how he could best avoid his boss without feigning illness, when someone knocked on his door. They were gone by the time he answered, but they’d left a package for him, a small and slender box. He picked it up, frowning as he read the label. He hadn’t been expecting any packages, but it was his name on the box. 

He considered whether he should take any precautions, but it was a very ordinary looking box, and even if it  _ were  _ cursed, he didn’t have the slightest idea what he would do about it. So he simply opened it, and found a silver bracelet nestled on a bed of velvet. 

Not just any bracelet. The metal was smooth to the touch and gleamed like moonlight on water. The links were highly stylized filigree, each curve painstakingly wrought. They reminded him of waves on a roiling sea, at once soothing and arresting. He turned it over in his fingers, enjoying the coolness against his skin and the play of light against the metal, before something occurred to him. 

Peter was sending him a very clear message with his gift. 

_ Thanks for the lay. Here’s something shiny for your trouble.  _

Martin felt something cold and heavy settle in the pit of his stomach, thinking of all the other gifts he’d accepted. The meals at restaurants he could never afford, disguised as business lunches. The engraved pen Peter loved watching him use. Even his clothes: Peter had purchased both his coat and his trainers. 

He remembered Peter’s voice from the night before, rough with desire:  _ needy little slut.  _ Even  _ whore.  _ Those words had made Martin’s blood run so hot the night before, lost in the fantasy Peter fed him, but they sounded so different in the light of day. 

He’d known Peter was buttering him up with the gifts, and he’d allowed it, despite his confusion. The attention had gratified him, all those little reminders that someone had  _ noticed _ him. 

In retrospect, Martin had been bought and paid for. Just like everything else in Peter’s life.

Martin stripped off his shoes and coat, finding an old pair of trainers under the bed and putting them on instead. He didn’t have another coat, but his jumper would have to do. The soft wool made him feel dirty. 

* * *

Peter was reading when Martin stormed into his office, wire-rimmed glasses perched on the tip of his nose. The sight would have made Martin blush on any other day, but now it only made him angrier. He’d had the whole tube ride to work himself up, and Peter had no right to look at him so innocently. Martin’s heart was pounding, and his hands shook. 

“What the fuck is this?” Martin demanded, throwing the box so hard it bounced off Peter’s desk and hit his chest. 

“Good morning, Martin,” Peter said blandly. He pushed his glasses up before inspecting the package, then smiled. “I believe it’s a bracelet.”

“I  _ know _ it’s a bracelet,” Martin ground out. “What I  _ don’t _ know is why you think you can just—pay me off!”

“Beg your pardon?”

“I’m not a  _ whore, _ Peter,” Martin snapped. “You can’t just buy me off with jewelry! What do you think I am?”

Peter smirked. “If I were paying for last night, I’d have paid much more than a few thousand pounds.” 

“A few thousand—what the  _ hell _ is wrong with you?” Martin gaped. 

“Shut the door, please, Martin.”

Martin realized with a jolt that the door had been open the whole time. He closed it, swallowing hard. 

Peter’s fingers were steepled before him on the desk. 

“What is this about, Martin?” he asked calmly. 

“This is about you trying to—to  _ buy _ me!” Martin shouted. “I won’t stand for it. You can’t just—just—”

“Just...buy gifts for people I like?” Peter asked, tilting his head to the side as if puzzled. 

“You can’t just buy people expensive jewelry because you  _ fucked _ them! Whatever you’re playing at—”

“What if I told you I ordered I ordered that bracelet last week?” Peter asked. “After that lovely chat about Tennyson?”

Martin stopped, mouth still half-open to argue. 

_ “And the stately ships go on, to their haven under the hill,” _ Peter recited, turning the bracelet in his hands. It looked incredibly small in his grip.  _ “But oh, for the touch of a vanish'd hand, and the sound of a voice that is still. _ I was quite charmed that you knew it by heart.” 

The conversation came back to him. Martin had missed most of his classes the year before he dropped out, but he’d haunted every secondhand shop near his mother’s flat, spending most of his spare funds on books. Tennyson had been among his favorites.

He felt his cheeks growing hot. “I—”

“This isn’t about the bracelet, is it?” Peter rose from his chair, stalking around to trap Martin between him and the desk. Martin could scarcely breathe.

“You left me all alone last night, Martin,” Peter teased, taking Martin’s chin in his hand and tilting it up. “Why did you do that?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“Were you afraid I’d think you were too easy?” Peter leaned closer, whispering into his ear. “Did it make you feel vulnerable?”

“I—well. Maybe.” Martin admitted, quietly. His heart was pounding in his ears.

“Why don’t you let me cheer you up?” Peter leaned down to nuzzle his neck. 

A slow shiver crawled down Martin’s spine as he asked, “What do you—have in mind?”

Peter dropped to his knees and reached for Martin’s belt, and Martin thought,  _ oh _ . His hands gripped the desk as Peter pushed his pants and trousers down. To Martin’s shame, he was already starting to grow hard. 

“Lovely boy,” Peter murmured, nuzzling Martin’s cock with his whiskered cheek. Martin shuddered and clutched the desk tighter. 

Peter was utterly shameless on his knees, wasting no time getting Martin’s cock in his mouth. He seemed to savor every moment, sucking with such a single-minded focus that Martin felt dizzy. He made the most obscene noises, wet little sounds combined with soft moans, and he had no trouble taking Martin to the root. 

Just when Martin was starting to lose himself, Peter pulled off to suck on his own fingers, stroking his cock with his other hand. Martin whined at the loss, and Peter shushed him before sliding spit-slick fingers between his cheeks. He parted his legs with a low whimper as Peter stroked his hole. Peter’s fingers were thick and blunt, but the first stretched him open easily, leaving him exposed. 

“God, Peter—” Martin crammed his fist into his mouth, unable to stop the needy sounds that threatened to spill from his throat. “I’m going to—”

Peter slid another finger into Martin’s arse, sucking him deeper into his throat, and Martin nearly screamed against his fist, coming so hard it nearly hurt. Peter swallowed every drop, smirking like the cat that got the cream. So to speak.

Afterwards Martin slid to the floor in a boneless heap. Peter was there to scoop him into his lap and whisper sweet nothings in his ear. 

“You still shouldn’t spend that much on me,” Martin panted, burrowing his face in Peter’s neck.

Peter laughed and kissed his ear. “You’re welcome to try and stop me.” 

Taking Martin’s wrist, Peter slid the bracelet onto him, clasping it with deft hands. It fit perfectly, as if it had been made for him. Peter lifted Martin’s wrist to his mouth and brushed his lips against the pulse point. 

It was at that moment Martin realized he was entirely  _ fucked.  _

Unfortunately, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

* * *

Martin did his best to make himself scarce around the Institute, but there were still  _ some  _ things he had to do in person. He didn’t have Peter’s knack for invisibility, though he wished he did now, as every pair of eyes seemed to follow him around the halls. Groups of researchers stopped talking as he approached, only to drop into whispers after he passed. At least one man gave him a lurid once-over, looking at Martin like he was a piece of meat for sale. 

He tried to tell himself it was just his imagination, it was just what Beholding  _ did,  _ until Jon cornered him in a disused hallway. The skin under his eyes looked bruised from lack of sleep, and his jaw was covered with stubble. Martin suppressed the urge to comfort him. 

“Hello, Martin,” Jon said quietly. 

“You know I can’t talk to you.” 

“I—I know,” Jon said, without moving. For someone who barely came up to Martin’s shoulder, he managed to take up a great deal of space. 

Martin tried again. “If you’ll excuse me…” he said, making a move to brush past him. Jon moved to trap him against the wall. 

“It’s important,” Jon argued. “I need to know—”

“You really  _ don’t,  _ Jon.” Martin said, beginning to grow annoyed. 

“Did he hurt you?” Jon demanded. 

Martin felt the answer rise in him and almost opened his mouth, but he refused to speak, glaring at Jon. 

_ “What did Peter Lukas do to you?”  _

A shudder passed over Martin’s body, and the words came out before he knew he was speaking: 

“He ate me out until I begged him to fuck me, and then he did. It was the best sex of my life. He blew me in his office this morning. I can’t wait to do it again.”

Martin clapped a hand over his mouth, staring at Jon in horror. From Jon’s expression, the feeling was mutual. 

“Fuck,” Martin muttered. “I—shit. Did you just  _ compel  _ me?”

Jon’s silence was all the answer he needed. Martin’s shame flooded away, replaced with anger. Anger felt good: it burned everything else away, pain, fear, loneliness. He could be angry at Jon. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Jon? None of this is  _ any _ of your business!”

“It is if he’s hurting you! He’s not a good person, Martin! He’s barely even a  _ person  _ at all!”

“You think I don’t know that?” Martin snapped. “I’ve spent a lot more time with him than you have! Do you really think I’m that—that _stupid,_ that I haven’t noticed our boss is a monster? Did you ever stop to think that I _know_ we’re all fucked, and maybe I just want to close my eyes and pretend for a minute? That maybe you could just—let me _have this?”_

Martins’ vision was blurry, and he wiped at his eyes, surprised when they came away wet. Great. Just what the needed. Jon reached for him, but Martin shoved his hand away. 

“Stay away from me, Jon. And don’t try your little stunt again.” 

Jon opened his mouth for a long moment, then closed it again. 

Martin didn’t wait for him to answer. 

* * *

Martin left the Institute after that, not even bothering to text Peter. He fucking  _ dared  _ Peter to say something. The old lech could do his own paperwork for the day, and the Institute had got on just fine for over a  _ century _ without Martin Blackwood. They could survive another few hours without him. 

He refused to feel bad about curling up in bed with a stack of his favorite books and a pint of cherry vanilla ice cream. He was in the mood for Millay; her poems always hurt in just the right way. He’d almost fallen asleep when his phone chimed. 

**_hope u enjoy ur day off. plz book 2 tix 2 barcelona when u can. cheers._ **

Peter had followed the message with the dates, then a string of emojis: a plane, a smiley face, and the Spanish flag. Martin felt a twitch starting in his left eyebrow. 

**_For whom?_** he asked. 

**_4 me and my luvly assistant, of course._ **

**_Excuse me? We can’t just take a holiday mid-week._ **

**_meeting, not vacay. txt me when u’ve done it. 1st class plz. i’ll handle lodging. ;-)_ **

Martin considered arguing, but honestly he wouldn’t mind getting away from the Institute for a while. Though God only knew what kind of “lodging” Peter would find for them. Some decrepit sailor’s haunt, perhaps, or a cheesy tourist trap. 

And would he book one room, or two? Judging from his enthusiasm that morning, Martin suspected he knew the answer. 

* * *

Martin wasn’t surprised when Peter picked him up in a limousine. He just hoped it wasn’t coming out of the Institute’s funding, though he suspected a great deal of their funds came from Peter anyway. The Lukas family’s donations came through a variety of shell corporations, and even Martin had trouble tracking where the money came from. 

“Hello, stranger,” Peter said. He had a travel pillow around his neck and didn’t seem remotely self-conscious about it. 

The driver startled Martin by taking his suitcase from him without ceremony. Peter was sitting directly in the middle of the backseat. Martin sat down next to him, and Peter shifted even closer, so close their thighs touched. His arm went around the back of Martin’s seat. Martin tried not to get too comfortable. 

Heathrow was dizzyingly crowded, even on a weekday. After so much time spent alone in the Institute, rarely seeing anyone but the handful of staff who worked upstairs, Martin found himself a bit overwhelmed. Peter’s hand gripped his elbow, guiding him through the chaos. 

Martin tried to think back to the last he’d been on a plane. Primary school, he thought. After his grandmother died, and his mum had taken him to Kraków to sort out her affairs. He’d never met his grandmother until he saw her in the chapel, cold and still. Back then, her face had seemed alien, but as his mum got sicker, she had looked more and more like the woman in the box.

“Alright there?” Peter asked. Martin nodded, and they kept walking. 

They made it to the terminal with time to spare, so they wandered the brightly-lit shops together. Heathrow had everything from kitschy tourist shops to Harrods. He found himself standing outside Hermés, staring at a thick scarf in peacock blue. The fabric had a subtle shimmer, with darker blue threads that caught the light. It looked impossibly soft, and Martin almost reached out to touch it before he remembered himself. The staff could probably see straight through to his empty wallet. 

“It  _ is  _ lovely, isn’t it?” Peter said.

“I suppose,” Martin admitted. 

“It’ll go well with your coat,” Peter said, scooping it up and heading right for the till.

_ “P-peter!”  _ Martin spluttered. “You can’t just—”

“But I am,” Peter said. 

It was then that Martin realized he had two options. One, he could follow Peter and cause a scene. Or two, he could shut up and hope the earth swallowed him. Especially after he heard the price the cashier gave. 

It really was a lovely scarf, though. 

He was pretty sure he was beet red by the time Peter returned with his purchase, brandishing the bag like a trophy. Peter swung it over Martin’s shoulder, then guided him to the lounge. 

“Peter, you can’t just—you should take it back!” Martin argued, even as Peter guided him to a seat. 

“Do you not like it?” Peter asked, tilting his head curiously. 

“I—it’s not that—”

“Are you worried I can’t afford it?”

“I  _ know _ you can,” Martin snapped. “But—”

“But what, Martin? Do you think you don’t deserve it? Do you think you’ll  _ owe  _ me something?”

“I’ll never be able to pay you back,” Martin muttered. 

“Seeing you well cared for is payment enough,” Peter said. “And besides, the one you’re wearing is ghastly. Off with it, please.” 

Rolling his eyes, Martin complied, stuffing his tatty scarf into his bag. Peter draped the new one around his neck. It was just as soft as he’d imagined. Peter’s hands brushed his throat, and he suppressed a shiver. Looking down, he scarcely recognized himself, dressed in Peter’s coat and Peter’s scarf. They looked like someone else’s clothes. Someone far more interesting than him.

“Do you do this for all your…um...?”

“All my what, Martin?” Peter smiled with all his teeth, anticipating his answer.

Martin already regretted asking. “All your...assistants,” he said lamely. 

“I’ve never had an assistant before. Not like you, anyway.” 

Peter winked, and then fished a book out of his satchel. The title was in Cyrillic. Martin got his own book out until their flight was called. 

The first class cabin looked nothing like the flight he’d taken to Poland. The aisles were broad, and the seats leaned all the way back. The people up there looked less braced and miserable than the crowd he remembered. He supposed it came with the ridiculous price tag. 

The staff kept offering him snacks, drinks, and towels. Peter ordered a scotch on the rocks for himself and a peach bellini Martin hadn’t asked for. He had to admit it tasted pretty good, sweet and fizzy. Peter watched him the whole time he drank it, an unreadable expression on his face. 

It was only a two hour flight, but Peter managed to fall asleep anyway, leaning on Martin’s shoulder with his obnoxious pillow and snoring softly. 

“Sir, can I get anything for you and your…?” a flight attendant asked, too polite to guess aloud at what Peter might be to him. 

“We’re fine,” he said, shaking his head. 

* * *

Barcelona was beautiful. Martin had only ever seen pictures, and they didn’t do justice to the city, with its soft lights, its strange cathedrals, and its sparkling sea. Martin wanted to stay forever, just drinking it in, but soon they were being whisked into their hotel room. 

Martin gaped. Their suite was larger than his whole flat, decorated in polished dark wood and white marble. There was a spiral staircase from the bedroom to the sitting area, which had a chic but comfortable set of furniture. There was even a balcony. 

“Do you always book rooms like this for business trips?” Martin set his shoulder bag down on the chair. 

“Where else would I take you?” Peter asked, drawing him into a kiss. Martin felt his pulse flutter at the simple, casual intimacy of the gesture, until Peter took the kiss deeper, and he forgot to think at all. 

“I’ve got some business to take care of,” Peter said, pulling away. “It might be a few hours. I trust you’ll get on without me?”

Martin felt cold from where Peter wasn’t touching him. He nodded, turning away to unpack. Peter dropped one last kiss on the back of his neck before strolling out, closing the door behind him. 

“Why the hell did you even want me to come?” Martin muttered to the closed door.

Martin decided to make himself at home. He unpackaged a few outfits and hung them on one side of the closet, then set his toiletries on the counter. They looked shabby next to the fancy ones from the hotel, but so would everything of Martin’s. He scowled. 

After a quick shower, he changed and wandered out into the lobby, worrying all the while that someone would stop and ask him to leave, even if he had the key card and everything. A brief glance at the hotel restaurant menu showed that it was more than his meager budget could afford. Peter would have let him use the Institute card, but Martin couldn’t bring himself to use it for twenty-euro sandwiches or lamb-stuffed dates. 

Instead he wandered out onto the street, following the breeze and the crowds and trying not to feel utterly alone. All around him, people were speaking a musical language he thought must be Catalán. It was lovely, and also completely incomprehensible, except when he caught the odd Latin root. 

He managed to buy a cup of tea and a reasonably-priced sandwich, then sat outside on a bench watching the crowds go by. Families with children, couples holding hands, groups of friends. So many lives intertwined, and completely separate from his. It occurred to him that no one would notice if he disappeared. 

Once he’d finished his meal, he walked some more. Eventually he found a park, and he spent most of the afternoon exploring its green walkways and gazing over the calm lake at its heart. Normally he would have wanted to take pictures, perhaps even make sketches. Instead he just watched, and wondered what Jon was doing. Even angry, Martin  _ worried  _ about him _. _ He refused to think about Peter at all.

It was dark before he finally made his way back to the hotel. The room was empty, as he’d expected. He ordered room service in a fit of pique, a whole flight of  _ tapas _ and  _ pintxos  _ to nibble on. There was honeyed goat cheese for dessert, and a cocktail with a little umbrella. The food was, predictably, amazing. It only made him angrier. 

Afterwards he found himself tired, and instead of working on expense accounts like he’d planned, he settled into bed with a novel. He fell asleep without meaning to, and was awoken by Peter’s weight sinking into the bed behind him. He blinked at the clock next to him. It was well past midnight. 

“What have we here?” Peter purred in his ear, pulling Martin until their bodies touched. The smell of scotch was strong on his breath, and Martin flinched. 

“You smell like a still,” Martin complained, turning over and shoving him away. “I thought you were working.” 

“I was.” 

“In a bar?” 

“Nothing smooths things along like a few drinks.”

“Why did you even  _ invite _ me here, then? If you’re just going to do everything by yourself?”

“Maybe I wanted something sweet to come back to,” Peter said, fixing Martin with a predatory stare. 

“Oh, fuck off,” Martin said, before rolling away—or trying to. Peter grabbed him before he could move, pinning him under his weight. 

“Do you want to know the real reason I left you behind?” Peter said, trapping Martin’s wrists above his head. “Think carefully.” 

“It it because you think I’ll say something stupid? Or in case you spot someone  _ pretty?” _ Martin snapped. 

Peter switched his grip so he was holding both Martin’s wrists in one hand. Martin tried not to think about how large that hand was, or how the restraint made his heart race. Using his free hand, Peter tipped Martin’s chin up, forcing him to meet his eyes. 

“It’s because you’re a  _ meal.  _ Every one of us would love to just eat you up, make a feast of your fear and pain. Do you know how many times I’ve been tempted?” Peter leaned close, his lips brushing Martin’s ear. “It would be so _ easy.” _

Martin glared up at him. “Am I supposed to be grateful for that? Why not just  _ do _ it, if you’re so fucking keen?”

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“You talk an awful lot of big talk, Peter,” Martin snapped. “I don’t think you know if you want my affection, or my fear.” 

“You  _ should  _ fear me.” 

Peter stared down at him. His eyes gleamed in the dark, but Martin couldn’t make out his expression. They were both breathing hard. 

“Fuck off, Peter,” Martin said, pushing hard against Peter’s grip. His wrists came free, though they ached. He pushed Peter off to the side and rolled over again, making a show of his unprotected back. 

“If you’re going to eat me, do it once I’ve had some sleep.” 

Peter huffed quietly, and rolled out of bed. Martin heard the balcony door open, and then close again. He refused to look. 

If Martin was still awake when Peter came to bed, neither of them acknowledged it. 

* * *

Martin woke to a stubbled face nuzzling his ear. He shivered, tilting his head to expose his throat, and Peter chuckled from behind him.

“Morning,” Peter murmured, working a hand under Martin’s shirt. He stroked Martin’s chest, rubbing his nipples with a calloused thumb until they hardened. 

Martin was now fully awake. 

“I thought I told you to fuck off,” he said. 

“I did,” Peter said, kissing the back of his neck. “It was so very cold without you. I don’t know how I survived.”

“You were a complete arsehole last night.”

“I was. You should punish me for it.” 

Peter rolled Martin over so they were face to face. His erection was heavy against Martin’s thigh. Martin didn’t know whether he wanted to kiss him or shove him away. Peter solved his dilemma, seizing his hair and pulling him close. 

Martin bit down on Peter’s lip, making him moan. Their bodies came together, chest pressed to chest, hips rolling against each other. Martin wound up on top, pushing Peter’s shirt up his chest to rake his nails across the pale skin. Peter growled deep in his throat. 

“You  _ like _ it, don’t you?” Martin said. 

Peter pulled him in for another kiss, wet and filthy and edged with teeth. Martin worked his way down to Peter’s chest again, following the lines his nails had made with bites and teasing licks. Peter’s hips pushed up into Martin’s, and Martin found his nipple and bit down hard. The sound Peter made was inhuman, desperate and keening, and Martin repeated the action on the other side. 

“I know you brought lube, now where is it?” Martin said. Peter’s eyes were bright as he looked up at Martin, then pointed to his bag. “You’d better be naked by the time I’m back.” 

Peter was already pulling his shirt over his head when Martin got up. Martin’s pulse hammered in his ears. It was a dangerous game he was playing, and he knew it. He also knew nothing could make him stop. Not now. 

To Peter’s credit, he was fully nude by the time Martin returned. Martin drank in the sight of him as he removed his own clothes: the thick muscle of his chest and arms; the greying hair; the hint of paunch at his belly. Peter spread his legs obligingly as Martin knelt on the bed. 

“You like being bossed around, don’t you?”

“Says the man who begged me to _ —ngh—” _

Martin interrupted by biting down hard on Peter’s inner thigh, then trailing downward, past his balls to the furled muscle of his hole. He circled a finger around the tight muscle, listening as Peter’s breath came faster. He thought of Peter doing this to him before, how he’d come apart under Peter’s mouth, and he took a small, experimental lick. 

The effect was immediate: Peter’s whole body tensed, his legs clenched around Martin’s head. Martin batted them away before licking up to Peter’s balls, then back down again. Peter moaned loudly. 

Gaining confidence, Martin nipped at the crease of Peter’s thigh before kissing a trail back to the center. He slid his tongue in slow, teasing circles, digging his nails into Peter’s hips as he did so. Finally he dipped his tongue inside, and Peter thrust up against Martin’s face. Instead of giving him more, Martin trailed back up to the smooth skin behind his balls. Peter groaned and pounded the sheets with his fists. 

There was power in this, power Martin hadn’t experienced just from sucking Peter off. It was dangerous, heady, and utterly addictive. He slid his tongue back into Peter’s hole just to hear him cry out again. He wondered if he could make Peter beg. He wondered what it would feel like. 

Eventually Peter tugged at his hair, and Martin let himself be pulled up for a fevered kiss. Martin stroked Peter’s cock as they kissed, and Peter moaned into his mouth. 

“You going to give me that lovely big cock of yours?” Peter asked. 

“Only if you’re good,” Martin said, reaching for the lube and pouring it over his fingers. 

“I’ve never been good in my life.”

“Then you’ll have to put in some effort.” 

It was strange, reconciling the Peter who spoke so playfully with all the other faces he wore. The Peter who’d threatened him. The Peter who’d delighted in Martin’s fear. The Peter who’d worn that unreadable expression as he talked about his family. Sometimes Martin wondered if even Peter knew how the pieces went together. 

Martin’s first two fingers went into Peter easily, making him groan and arch his back. Martin drew them back out again, fucking him at a slow and unhurried pace.

“Christ, Martin,” Peter groaned. “You don’t have to buy me dinner.” 

Martin’s fingers found what he was looking for, and Peter moaned loudly. 

“You could ask nicely,” Martin suggested. 

“Fine,” Peter huffed. “Martin Blackwood, would you  _ please  _ do me the honor of fucking my arse?” 

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” 

The look on Peter’s face told Martin everything he needed to know. He rolled his eyes and reached for the condoms, only to have Peter grab his wrist. 

“I don’t need them if you don’t.” 

Martin considered. It was a terrible idea, but so was sleeping with Peter in the first place. They might not even live to see the consequences. He tossed the strip of little packets away, then slicked his cock. 

He didn’t bother to ask if Peter was ready, simply spreading Peter’s thick thighs and pushing in. They both shuddered. Peter was slicker and tighter inside than he’d imagined. His thighs gripped Martin close. 

_ “Fuck, _ Martin,” Peter said, and Martin leaned down to kiss him, more gently than before. Peter’s legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him in deeper, and Martin broke the kiss to moan. 

Gradually they built a rhythm, with slow, deep thrusts interrupted by long kisses. Peter’s hands roamed his body, stroking his back, tangling in his hair. His heels dug into Martin’s arse, urging him on. 

“Christ, I want to ride you,” Peter groaned. “I want you in so deep I can taste it.”

That sounded like a very good idea to Martin. He pulled out, then moved to lean against the headboard. Peter crawled over him with a feral grin.

“You won’t know what hit you,” Peter growled, sinking onto his cock. Martin met his thrust from below, driving even deeper into Peter. Peter’s nails dug into Martin’s shoulders. 

Martin’s hands were free, and he took full advantage, squeezing Peter’s cock with his slick fingers. 

“Playing dirty, are we?” 

“Turnabout is fair play,” Martin said, punctuating his words with a wicked twist of his wrist. 

Peter grabbed Martin’s hair with both hands, kissing him hard. His weight was heavy in Martin’s lap, his strong thighs bracketing Martin’s hips as he ground down, over and over again, panting into Martin’s mouth. Martin was surrounded, overwhelmed and a bit helpless, but from the sounds Peter made, he wasn’t alone. 

“F-fuck, Peter, I’m going to—”

“Do it,” Peter growled. “Come in me—”

Peter sped up, tightening around him, and Martin stroked him harder. Peter’s mouth clamped down on his, and Martin felt the tightly wound cord within him snap as he spilled inside Peter. Peter milked every drop from him, until Martin pushed him onto his back. He sucked the head of Peter’s cock into his mouth at the same time as he shoved three fingers into Peter’s arse, seeking out the spot that made Peter tear at the sheets. It didn’t take long before Peter was shouting and coming into his mouth. Martin swallowed with a bit of smug satisfaction. 

Martin tugged Peter until they were lying side by side, with Martin’s head pillowed on Peter’s arm. He felt inexplicably fragile, like Peter could break him with a touch. Peter drew him closer, almost crushing Martin against his chest. 

“Christ, lad,” Peter murmured. Martin made a vague noise of agreement, muffled against Peter’s chest. “I need a cigarette.” 

Martin wrinkled his nose, gripping Peter’s arm as if to keep him in bed. 

“Relax, I haven’t got any.” 

Eventually Peter wandered off to clean up, bringing Martin a damp cloth to wipe off with, before burrowing beneath the blankets. To Martin’s surprise, Peter scooped him right back against his chest. His heart pounded so hard it was a wonder Peter didn’t hear it. 

“Time for a nap, I think,” Peter murmured, brushing a kiss against the back of his neck. 

It was surprisingly warm in Peter’s arms, and to Martin’s surprise, sleep came easily.

* * *

Martin woke up to the smell of something delicious and fried. Opening one eye, he saw Peter at the doorway, trading a neatly folded bill for a tray of food. Martin flushed and pulled the covers up to his neck. What a sight he must have made, naked in his boss’s bed, with his hair tousled, the smell of sex still lingering in the air. Stronger than the embarrassment was surprise; he'd been almost sure he'd wake up alone. He checked the clock. They’d only been asleep a few hours. 

“I’ve got you the best breakfast in Spain,” Peter promised, bringing the tray over. 

Martin’s stomach growled, loudly, and he flushed. Peter laughed and ruffled his hair before taking the lid off the tray. 

“Is that a ham and cheese sarnie?”

“No, we’re in Barcelona, so it’s a  _ bikini.”  _

Next to the sandwich was an omelette, a cup of sliced strawberries, and a pastry dusted with cinnamon. There was also a cup of coffee, and another of what looked like very rich chocolate. Peter took the coffee, making a borderline-obscene sound as he drank. 

Martin picked up one half of the sandwich, taking an experimental bite, and groaned. The bread was fried to crisp perfection, with perfectly melted cheese and juicy ham. 

“I might have ordered a few hundred pounds worth of room service last night,” Martin confessed. “And charged it to your card.” 

Peter laughed. “If that’s the worst you do, I think I’ll be alright.” 

The rest of their meal was just as perfect. Martin was sure he was in danger of being spoiled. He didn’t think anyone had brought him breakfast in bed before. That was usually something  _ he  _ did. 

_ It won’t last,  _ he reminded himself. 

But still...it couldn’t hurt to enjoy it while it was happening. He hoped. 

Peter popped a strawberry into his mouth. “We’ll need to leave in about half an hour if we want to make it to the meeting on time.” 

“What, so I’m invited now?”

Peter smiled with far too many teeth. “I think I made it clear to them last night what will happen if they touch something of mine.” 

“I’m not a  _ thing,  _ Peter,” Martin said, though the look on Peter’s face made him shiver. 

Peter leaned down to steal a kiss. “It’s safer if they think you are.”

Peter’s mouth tasted of coffee, and Martin luxuriated in it for a moment before heading off to shower. He found more than a few bruises he didn’t remember having. The sight of them sent a hot flush of remembrance through him. It took more than a little restraint to stop himself from reliving the encounter right there in the shower, with Peter just a door away. He wondered how many marks he’d left on Peter, and bit his lip. 

He emerged from the shower to find a set of clothes laid out for him. They weren’t what he’d brought with him. 

“What’s this?” Martin asked. 

“Consider it your armor,” Peter said. 

“I swear to god, Peter,” Martin murmured, reaching to touch the fabric. Peter had selected a white dress shirt with faint pink stripes, paired with a deep burgundy waistcoat and trousers, and topped off with a pink bow tie. There was also a camel-colored coat, and the peacock-colored scarf from the airport. Martin wouldn’t have paired the colors himself, but somehow they worked. He wasn’t sure if Peter was secretly obsessed with fashion or if he’d paid someone to select Martin’s clothes. He decided he’d rather not know. 

The pants made him smirk: soft teal fabric with a pattern of whales. Peter’s personal touch, he guessed. He started to dress, but Peter stopped him. 

“Let me,” he said, giving Martin a look of such plain  _ hunger _ that he flushed. 

Peter was surprisingly gentle as he dressed him. His hands lingered on Martin’s skin, possessive but almost chaste. It made Martin feel treasured, like a rare vase, or a sculpture. He had a feeling Peter didn’t know how else to treat the things he liked: as possessions. The thought left him feeling cold. If Peter noticed, he didn’t say anything. 

It was a short drive to the meeting place, a nondescript little building nestled among offices and storefronts. 

The men and women gathered inside paid little attention to Martin, who did his best to project the image of an ordinary assistant who most certainly wasn’t having an affair with his boss. 

The meeting was called to order by a tall black woman with blonde braids, whom he suspected must be Annabelle Cane. She was flanked by two identical red-haired women, each armed with clipboards and pens. Their movements were too synchronized to be natural, and their gazes were utterly empty. 

Next to Annabelle Cane was a short man wearing a turban, with a thick black beard. His eyes were impossibly dark, giving no reflection. Across from him was a bored-looking blond man in a beige suit. His pale skin had a strange sheen to it, like wax. Slouched in a corner was a short, dark-skinned woman with cherry red dreadlocks. 

“We’re all here. Lovely.” Annabelle said, clapping her hands together. Her fingers seemed unnaturally long, like they had too many joints, but the longer Martin looked, the less sure he was. “Does anyone object if we start with the matter in Helsinki?”

“Oh, but what about our new friend?” the blond man asked, fixing Martin with a cold smile. 

“My assistant,” Peter said dismissively. Martin found he didn’t mind, as the man’s attention was unsettling. He kept his gaze on his notebook,. 

“Where  _ do  _ you get such delicious assistants?” the man asked. 

Martin focused very intently on  _ not blushing,  _ with only moderate success.

“From the Institute, of course,” said the woman with the dreadlocks. “Peter’s become quite the freelancer.” 

“I’m always ready to help, Ms. Fairchild,” Peter sad with a charming smile. 

“Oh, but your help comes at such a cost,” she rebuked. 

“If we’re quite finished?” Annabelle asked. 

Martin found himself wondering if Peter like women. More importantly, if he liked them small and slim like Ms. Fairchild. Pointless to speculate. He turned his attention to taking notes. 

The meeting was surprisingly mundane, mostly focused on property and financial transactions, with a few mentions of business ventures. It all sounded quite...normal, if he ignored the scorch marks the blond man left on the table when he got irritated, or the way the room abruptly chilled when he insulted Ms. Fairchild. There seemed to be a bit of history there. 

Peter proved himself to be a shrewd negotiator, alternating between charm and steely resolve. Martin doubted he got anything past Annabelle, but the others certainly seemed susceptible. At least Martin wasn’t the only one. 

The meeting dragged on for hours. Martin’s hand was beginning to cramp, and he suspected if it lasted any longer, the blond man was going to set the room on fire. Starting with Peter. Finally Annabelle called it to an end. 

“I’ll send you those contracts,” Annabelle said to Peter. 

“My patron thanks you,” Peter said. “As does the Institute.” 

“Your...patron?” Annabelle asked with a slow smile, looking from Peter to Martin. “Interesting.”

Peter frowned but said nothing else about it, turning to give Ms. Fairchild a friendly wave. 

The car ride back to the hotel was quiet. Martin spent it reviewing his notes, making notations on points that needed to be expanded or rearranged. Peter’s silence was palpable, but Martin wasn’t sure what to do about it. 

The moment they arrived at the hotel, Peter said, “I’m going for a walk.” He didn’t bother to say where or for how long, and Martin didn’t ask. 

Martin had considered going to the Picasso museum, which was tantalizingly close, or even to La Sagrada Família, but Peter’s hasty exit had soured his mood. Instead, he wandered again, stopping for a lunch he hardly tasted, then walked until his legs ached. He never would have made it back without his GPS. He half expected the Lonely to swallow him then and there. 

* * *

It was nearly dark when he returned to the hotel. To his surprise, Peter was waiting for him.

Before Martin could say anything, Peter struck, pinning Martin to the wall with an arm across his throat. His eyes were wild as they bore into Martin’s. 

“What the fuck did you do?” Peter snarled, pressing down on Martin’s windpipe. 

Martin wheezed, fingers scrabbling at Peter’s thick arm. It didn’t help. 

“I should slit your throat, but that would be too good for you. I should do it nice and slow.”

Martin’s vision was starting to go black at the edges. Peter was the only thing holding him up. He tried kicking out, but he was already growing weak. Finally Peter relented, shoving him onto the bed before pinning him by the shoulders. 

Martin gasped for air, tears running down his face. Peter pulled him by the hair, forcing him to look up. 

“What. Did you.  _ Do?” _ Peter ground out. 

His eyes were incredibly blue, Martin realized. Dark blue, like the sea at sunset. Martin was probably going to die staring into those eyes. 

“Answer me!” Peter shouted.

Martin coughed, pulling against the grip on his hair. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“Of  _ course _ you fucking do. What are you getting out of this, you fucking—”

“I don’t  _ know _ anything!” Martin snapped. “Stop hurting me!”

Peter stared down at him for a long moment, searching his face. His expression shifted from rage to pure misery as he rolled off of Martin, putting his head in his hands. 

Martin laid there, trying to catch his breath. His throat ached with every breath. He used his sleeve to wipe the tears and snot off his face before sitting up. 

“What happened, Peter?”

“I knew there was something wrong,” Peter muttered. “The way she looked at me—like she was so fucking amused she couldn’t help herself.”

“Peter—”

“I can’t feel my patron,” Peter said flatly. “I can’t use its power. I can’t step into its world. I’m  _ trapped.”  _

“What—? I mean, are you sure?”

Peter laughed bitterly. “I’m  _ quite  _ sure.”

“What could even  _ do  _ that? Was it Annabelle Cane?”

Peter sighed. “For someone so bright, you can be remarkably thick.”

“Fuck you, Peter! You don’t get to treat me like this.”

“And what about your little friends?” Peter sneered. “Did you forget I’m protecting them?”

“I’ll find another way. I don’t need you.” Martin snapped. 

Peter stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. For once there was no bluster, no teasing. All of his barriers had fallen. Martin had a feeling Peter was seeing him,  _ really  _ seeing him, for the first time.

“You’ve ruined me, Martin Blackwood,” Peter said. “And you weren’t even trying.” 

Peter reached out to touch Martin’s cheek, leaning in close. Before Martin knew what he was doing, he slapped Peter, hard. 

“You don’t get to  _ do  _ that, Peter!” he said shakily. “Not after you just choked me half to death.”

“I...apologize,” Peter said, rubbing the side of his face. The skin was already turning pink. “I wasn’t... I shouldn’t have done that.” 

“No, you shouldn’t,” Martin said. 

After a long moment, Martin sighed and laid back down, pulling Peter with him. Peter was strangely passive, letting Martin arrange him against his side, with his head pillowed on Martin’s chest. 

“Is it permanent?” Martin asked. 

“I don’t know.”

Martin ran a slow hand down Peter’s spine, and Peter sighed. Neither of them spoke.

There was no trusting a man like Peter, Martin knew, though he could see no motive for him to lie about this. Even if Peter was telling the truth, he most likely deserved whatever happened to him. There was no reason for Martin to help him. He should let Peter disappear into the sea, as he’d probably always meant to. 

Martin already knew he wouldn’t. 

They laid there together, unmoving, as the sun set and cast the room in darkness. Martin listened to the soft sounds of Peter’s breath, until sleep claimed them both. 


End file.
